


John Watson Excels at the Non-culinary Arts

by ancientreader



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Figging, M/M, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:23:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/pseuds/ancientreader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock go to a party. They hold a private party of their own. In response to flubber2kool's prompt "Oh did you ever, what a swell party this is," for the Come at Once challenge on LJ. I am both literal and inexact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson Excels at the Non-culinary Arts

Sherlock isn’t much use to Mycroft anymore when it comes to observing clandestine transactions at formal do’s: his face and voice are too recognizable, and as soon as he’s spotted, all meet and drop arrangements are off. Relationships and anxieties can’t be cancelled just like that, however, and CCTV and bugs, useful though they are, will never substitute for Sherlock in person: eye and ear and nose. Therefore: an ambassadorial black-tie evening, with Sherlock bitching and moaning the whole way there, and John emphatically not bitching and moaning because the package gets more enticing the more carefully wrapped it is. The only thing he likes better than Sherlock in the blue dressing gown is Sherlock in one of his how-do-you-even-move-in-that black suits, and the only thing he likes better than Sherlock in a closely fitted suit is Sherlock in formal dress, and the only thing he likes better than seeing Sherlock in _that_ is getting Sherlock out again.

Sherlock breaks off his litany to blush scarlet when he registers the smile on John’s face. This bodes well.

*

The food is excellent. Sherlock is off pretending to flirt with the Dutch envoy when a passing tray of sushi gives John an other-than-culinary idea. He finds the kitchen and pays it a brief visit, then hunts up Sherlock, who has accomplished whatever he set out to accomplish with the ambassador and is now on the balcony punching out a text to Mycroft. 

“Done?” John says once Sherlock has hit Send.

Sherlock pockets the phone.

“Good. Red, yellow, green?” 

Sherlock looks John up and down. “Green, _of course_ ,” he says scornfully. 

Has John got a surprise for him. “C’mere.” 

Sherlock bends toward John’s mouth for a dirty kiss, long enough to redden Sherlock’s lips; John puts a few little bites in it to signal immediate intentions. Sometimes he can see Sherlock’s pulse in his throat after a kiss like that, but it’s too dark on the balcony. Oh, well. “Hands behind your back, then.” 

John gives Sherlock a push in the small of his back and walks him through the balcony doors and across the ballroom with fingers just resting against his joined wrists. It looks like nothing more than a boyfriend’s casual touch, to anyone watching. He guides Sherlock into the room he’d scoped out on his way to the kitchen – a stroke of luck, this, or he’d have had to wait till he got Sherlock home, and John’s been in a rather pressing frame of mind since his inspiration struck. The ballroom doubles as a concert space and the room John found is the storeroom for audience seating: posh private audience seating, and therefore not your plebeian plastic stacking chairs but comfortable wooden chairs with padded seats – and, even more to John’s point, half a dozen settees in (this is almost too good) aubergine velvet. In the interest of walking comfortably John has, up to this moment, stringently avoided picturing Sherlock on one of these. 

First, though, he shoves Sherlock up against the nearest wall, unzips his trousers, and delivers a thorough groping. “You. In this suit. So. Very. Elegant.”

Sherlock’s eyes are closed and he’s biting his lip, but he grins at this. “Captain Watson, I deduce that you want to dishevel me.”

John shoves a leg between Sherlock’s, pins his shoulders to the wall, and kisses him again. “Cheek. I want to hear you whimper before I’m through. Look.” He takes the surprise out of his breast pocket and undoes the cling film and the strip of wet kitchen roll he’s wrapped it in to keep it moist. 

Sherlock’s mouth makes a pretty O. John rubs at his lips with the index finger of his free hand.

“Have you ever?”

“No.”

“Green?”

“Do you need to ask? It’s hardly a challenge.”

“Mighty sure of that, are you? You do realize you’re taking it with nothing but spit, I hope. Lube interferes with the effect.”

Sherlock gives the wand of ginger an ostentatiously respectful look, making John snicker.

“All right, gorgeous, I want your trousers and pants around your knees and I want you over my lap.”

Oh, this is a pretty, pretty sight – Sherlock’s arse at any time is enough to make John’s mouth water, but Sherlock’s arse against the contrast of black evening trousers … ! He takes a minute just to caress it; much as he loves to see it spanked red and hot, he savors this pale delectability too. He pats and rubs with one hand, and with the other presents the ginger to Sherlock’s mouth. “Suck it, get it good and wet. And hold yourself open for me, you pretty thing.” Sherlock reaches behind to part his cheeks obediently. John spits onto Sherlock’s hole, stroking back and forth with his thumb, reaching down every so often to give his balls a squeeze that makes Sherlock give a small choked gasp. John spits again and works saliva as far into Sherlock’s arse as he can, then takes back the ginger and carefully, carefully starts easing it in. He’d found a good-size hand of ginger in the caterers’ supplies, big enough and sturdy enough to enable him to peel and shape it in a hurry and still wind up with a good three inches of plug, with a narrow neck and a flared base so once he seats it inside Sherlock it’ll stay put while he turns Sherlock’s arse red around it.

“Feel anything yet?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Only a bit warm. I must say this isn’t very impressive so f– Oh, _John_.”

“Mmm. Heats up fast once it gets started, doesn’t it? You want to retract anything you’ve just said?”

Sherlock gulps air. John sets a hand on the back of his neck, soothingly. “Just take it, love. It feels like fire, doesn’t it? Wait till you see what it’s like when I spank you with it inside you.”

“John.”

For answer, John lays a flurry of slaps along the undercurve of Sherlock’s bottom. Each blow jostles the ginger, rubbing it minutely along the tender mucous membrane, making Sherlock yelp; John might be worried he was going too far if not for the reassuring poke of Sherlock’s hard-on against his thigh. John’s own cock is decidedly uncomfortable in his pants but he ignores it; he’s having too much fun. Sherlock is still struggling against the pain but in a moment he’ll give himself up to it, go pliant and easy and buoyant like a dream of flying; John slaps him hard and steady, over the round of his arse, down to his thighs where the blows give more pain than pleasure, laying strokes over the sweet undercurve to see his cheeks jiggle ... _Yes._ “There you go, love, there you go, you’re all mine, aren’t you, give me a bit more, just a bit more …”

Sherlock is wailing. “So loud,” John tells him, fondly. “Shall I give you something to stop your mouth, then?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock manages, “yes, yes yesyesyes –”

“On your knees.”

John unzips and shoves his trousers down to feed Sherlock his cock. “Go ahead, use your hands too” – because Sherlock is an artist with his mouth, but give him all his instruments and he’s a bloody genius. He drops kisses against the head and then takes it between his lips and suckles as if at a nipple, cradling John’s bollocks in one hand and reaching behind with the other for the faintest lightest touches to John’s perineum. John thrusts, hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat and making him gag. “I want it,” John says, “come on, suck,” and grabs Sherlock’s hair but thrusts more carefully and Sherlock presses his tongue up as hard as he can against the underside of John’s cock and swallows hard three times around him and that’s enough, the pleasure tightens and coils itself and leaps and Sherlock is everything, everything, everything and John is bending to kiss his face and lick the corners of Sherlock’s mouth because he's just come so hard Sherlock couldn’t quite get all of it down at once, and quick with exhilaration he pulls Sherlock up onto the settee and situates him with his head against the armrest, legs in John’s lap. 

“I’m on fire,” Sherlock says, plaintively, wriggling his bottom against the velvet. His pants and trousers are down around his ankles now. 

John reaches between Sherlock’s legs to press behind his balls. “I know. Are you safewording?”

Plaintiveness turns to indignation: “No!”

“Oh good. Because if I let you come, it’s going to be like this, you know. Get your legs in the air, I want to play with your arse a bit.”

Sherlock kicks off his trousers and pants first, not strictly what he was told to do but as it improves access John lets it go. He strokes little feather touches around Sherlock’s arsehole, bends to lick his perineum and nibble at his balls. Sherlock’s clutching randomly at John’s shoulders and the settee cushions and pushing into John’s hand: “Want me to touch your cock?”

“For Christ’s sake, yes.”

“Ask me nicely – ”

“Please, John”: this with hauteur.

“ – to play with the plug, and maybe I’ll think about getting you off.”

Sherlock heaves himself partly up to sitting and glares at John, then throws his head back against the arm of the settee, panting. “ _Please_ , John, play with the plug.”

John presses on the base. “Like that?”

“Oh God. Yes, like that.”

“Or like this?” John takes the plug between thumb and forefinger and twists. “Or this?” He rocks it forward and back and punctuates the movement with a lick at Sherlock’s perineum and the back of his balls. 

“However you want. Please. God. John. Anything, only come _on,_ come _on_.” 

Sherlock is heaving and squirming and in general being the world’s most demanding and least subby sub, but John will say this for him, he knows better than to try to touch his own cock at these moments. Well, maybe it’s time to have mercy. He kneels up with Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders and trails a thumb up the underside of Sherlock’s prick, then rings the head, wetting his hand with precome, and takes a good grip. The angle’s not great but Sherlock is so close it’s not going to matter. John strokes and licks, strokes and licks, reaches down to rock the ginger plug, feels Sherlock go tight, and just gets his mouth over Sherlock’s cock in time to save his beautiful suit from ruin and both of them from international embarrassment. 

Though, he reflects, wiping his mouth on the bit of damp kitchen roll he’d wrapped the ginger in, _Sherlock_ probably wouldn’t be embarrassed. 

“John,” Sherlock says, a bit urgently, “the ginger – ”

John eases the plug out, eliciting a gasp and a wince. Ginger gets genuinely miserable in a hurry without the condiment of arousal. “Sorry, love, I should’ve been quicker on the mark. Give it a minute or two and the heat’ll fade.” He strokes along Sherlock’s thighs soothingly, drops one teasing touch on his sore arsehole for the sake of the huff it gets him. 

*

“Really a lovely party,” John says on the way home. “We should go to those more often.”

“Ugh,” says Sherlock. “No we shouldn’t. But I wouldn’t object to buying a paring knife and a settee.”

**Author's Note:**

> On no notice _at all,_ MirithGriffin did a lightning-fast beta. Thank you, dear friend! Errors and bad prose are all mine, whereas the settees are all hers. And I recommend keeping fresh ginger in the house; it comes in so handy.
> 
> ETA: and here's a picture of Sher-- ah, Benedict in formal dress: http://www.vanityfair.com/style/the-international-best-dressed-list/2014/24. One quite sees the point.
> 
> ETA again: By coincidence, this also fills a months-earlier prompt on the kinkmeme, here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131160185#t131160185.


End file.
